


Things I Should've Said Earlier

by erased_mistake



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Baz being angsty, Canon Compliant, Character Study, I'm sorry what's tagging, Letters, Like really slow, M/M, Poetic, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-13 05:42:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11753247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erased_mistake/pseuds/erased_mistake
Summary: "You’re going to break my rot-ridden heart someday, Simon, and I’m pretty sure that day already passed.""I’m writing to you, Simon, because I want you to know Death will be kind to you."In which Baz won't tell Simon the things he needs to know, so he writes them down in letters to Snow only to be opened when Simon's dying....He should've expected that Simon would find them.Completed(aka I can't write summaries help) (Warning, a lot of the fic is the letters, but stuff happens at the end)Inspired by Lost In Time by @inktips on Wattpad!





	1. Chapter 1

I was five when I first met Death.

Funny how it happens, isn’t it? One moment, everything’s fine.

The next, everything goes up in flames, burning through the life you thought you lived.

I remember parts of that moment. Snippets. Pieces of shards of memories, shattered, laying about on the ground of my mind. 

I don’t try to go near there if I can help it; every time I do, the glass rips through my skin and I end up bleeding tears.

I couldn’t let you see me like that, Snow. I buried those memories under my hatred for you, stuffing them down.

You don’t really want to remember the expression your mother makes as she dies. Or the expression she makes as she watches you die.

You knew that all along, didn’t you, Snow? That I was dead. That I was less, I was wrong, I was evil.

I knew that. Of course I did. 

I was a vampire. Still am. 

The thing about Life is...it doesn’t quite work the way you think it does. I guess. I wouldn’t know; I’m dead, after all.

I started seeing things differently after that. Like..like Life is just a tiny seed growing inside you, and Death is the fire that burns it all up.

So I met Death, and he didn’t burn me.

(Because I’m wrong. Because I’m a monster.)

Death was the rot that grew on that seed, and I was just a five year old little boy with a dead mother and absent father and a molding, disgusting heart.

I wasn’t even good enough for Death to take me.

You must wonder why I’m telling you this, Snow. After all these years, when it doesn’t really matter.

But it does. It matters to me. Because if you’re reading this, you’re dying, or you’re almost dead, and I’m not by your side.

I’d tell you to yell at my future self for that, but I don’t know where the bloody git’s at this time. 

Maybe I’m dead. (Wouldn’t that be a blessing?) (Wouldn’t you be so happy?)

But I’m here to tell you that it’s okay you’re dying. It’s okay. Because at least you went out strong, unlike me.

Your heart is too pure for mold to ever take root.

Maybe that’s the reason I love you.

Because you’ll eternally be too good for me, as you always were in life, as you’ll always be in death.

Because sometimes things aren’t meant to be.

Sometimes dreams can’t come true, not even the one that grew in my own mind when I first saw your face.

When we shook hands, and my molding heart beat fast in my chest, because someone was willing to touch me, and I realized that, for a moment, to you, I wasn’t a monster.

Too bad I proved you wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s 2 am, darker than pitch, and I have no idea why I’m talking to you still. I wrote that other letter ages ago. 

You’re never going to read it.

More like, I’m never going to give it to you.

(You’d probably burn it and imagine it was me.) (I burn like flashpaper, and you know that.) (Maybe that’s why you always smell like smoke.)

I should be doing my homework, (Crowley, don’t I know it, this paper is two sentences long right now and it needs to grow into three pages by morning) but you’re sleeping there on your bed, twisting about, haunted by night terrors.

Better you than me, I should say, smirking, but I won’t. 

Because you’re not there to see it. 

Because you’re not there to hear me, and when you’re sleeping, I can finally stop trying.

Because when you’re sleeping, you don’t hate me, just for a moment, and maybe in your dreams, I’m not a monster to you.

But even so, I’m still not enough.

I’m a vampire, and I’m a boy, and that combination of wrong will never make things right. No matter how good you are, Snow. 

(I like to call you Simon sometimes, but it feels wrong, somehow. Like I don’t deserve to be on first name basis with you.)

I’m writing to you, Simon, because I want you to know Death will be kind to you.

(I don’t know why I’m writing this to the future, dying you. Maybe it’s because I’m trying to let you go earlier, before you tear my rot-ridden heart in half.)

Death owes you a favor, after all.

I guess I should explain, or try to explain, Snow, but it’s hard when you’re tossing like your nightmares have tacked themselves to your skin and you’re trying to shake them off.

(I want to help, but I can’t.)

Agatha Wellbelove. 

I think that’s where it started. 

Because I saw the way you looked at her, and the way she looked back at you.

Like you were two stars in the sky, ready to shine, day or night. Like you could beat back the darkness together. You and your sunshine hair, her with her shining skin. You two are the opposite of me, and you belong.

I hated that.

(I still do.)

You know how good I am with fire. 

That night, the one where you came back, smiling even at my scowl, declaring you’d finally gotten her as a girlfriend, was also the first time I tried lighting myself ablaze.

Just to see how it’d go, you know.

Because you hadn’t come back to the room yet, and I was alone, and your bed was so, so empty. And it was late. You weren’t there. My mind was running in millions of directions and seeing you in a million different places that weren’t here, next to me.

And I realized that I couldn’t live like that.

So I lit a small fire to clean off that mold, take out the monster, and you walked back into the room with your golden curls and your moles, and I told Death I wasn’t ready.

Not yet.

Because you were all the fire I could take, and I deserved to burn for who I was, who I am.

I’m burning now, just looking at you.

You’re curling up, hands tucked under your pillow, ridiculous curls bunching up, and I feel like I’ve been lit ablaze.

(Are you disgusted by me?)

(I am.)

So tell Death that he owes me a favor, will you? Tell him that you saved me, saved Death from having to pick up this rotten heart.

Tell him to kiss you softly on the forehead and take you away without any more pain.

(I’ve caused you enough.)

Tell him you deserve more than anyone else, everyone else, because I burned in my existence every moment I stayed in this room with you, and that was more than I ever deserved.


	3. Choose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I shouldn't write things at 1 AM, but I do

Death flirted with me once.

Yesterday, actually.

I’m okay now. Not that you’d care, Snow. Not you with your stammering words and aggression, half-hidden power simmering under your skin.

I can already imagine it. 

I can already picture walking through those doors tomorrow and seeing you there, eating your precious scones with your precious Agatha, and you’ll stutter and stammer at the sight of me. I’ll sneer at the sight of you and your perfect tabeau, and I’ll move on like I always have and I always will.

I’m not going to touch you. Contaminate you. My fingers are still cold, shaking, from playing with Death, and I will not let him near you. 

You’re going to break my rot-ridden heart someday, Simon, and I’m pretty sure that day already passed. 

I…

(Look at me. I’m turning out to be like you, stringing words out of the air, stumbling over syllables, falling flat on my face. I don’t know what to say. What do   
you even say after you’ve escaped what you deserved?)

(What can you say when even Death doesn’t want you?)

I guess I should start at the beginning.

The numpties got me. Shut me in a coffin and gave me blood to drink like I wasn’t human.

(They were right.)

I can already imagine you laughing at me.

No, Snow, my life isn’t spent plotting against you.

(Actually, much of it’s spent plotting on dying by your hand, or by your side. Either way works.)

I wasn’t plotting, I wasn’t trying to kill you, I wasn’t heaving hostility and hatred on top of the lump of love stuck in my diseased heart, trying to cover it all up.

(I’ve tried that and it doesn’t work.)

I was stuck in a coffin, waiting to die, and Death seeped in through those soggy, smelly boards of wood to linger at the darkness, the shadows in the corners.  
The coffin got that much smaller.

It’s a bit scary to share a space with Death. Everyone’s trying to ignore the elephant in the room, looking the other way with tear-filled eyes.

I didn’t have enough left in me to cry. I couldn’t move away, couldn’t give him space, couldn’t do much of anything as the shadows grew longer.

The darkness touched my hands, played with them, and I felt all the warmth leech from my hands and feet.

(That’s Death, I suppose. Never giving, always taking.)

He danced around me, soft, slow, and I couldn’t look away. I’m not sure I wanted to. He was so cold, yet so beautiful. (Was he finally going to give me what I deserved? Or was my rotten heart too little for him?)

He ran a finger across the back of my neck, and my skin broke out in goosebumps.

And that’s when you saved me, Snow.

Because for that moment, for that second, I imagined he was you.

Blue eyes, Golden curls, a constellation of freckles and moles.

And warm fingers that were so unlike the ones tightening around my neck.

That’s when you saved me, Snow. Because my heart started beating again, and I shoved myself away from that darkness, that Death, and reminded myself that I would always choose you over him.

Because you’re both beautiful, but you’re more so.

Because you’re kind.

Because you give and give and give, and life shines off your sunlit skin. 

I’ll take whatever you give me, even if it’s only snarls and growls and night-terror yells.

Because I’m greedy and pathetic, unworthy of the kindness spilling off your shoulders, and I just can’t accept that you’ve already given me all the chances   
you’re willing to spend.

(One day, I might just take you up on that.)

So here I am, sitting alone in my room with trembling fingers and emaciated arms, and I’ll be going back to Watford tomorrow to see what more you’ll give me.

Even if it’s only mistrust and biting words and avoidance.

I’ll take it.

I’ll take anything just to be near you, and you’d give anything just to get under my skin.

This isn’t how Mother said love would be, but I’ll take it.

It’s so much more than I deserve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked, please leave kudos or comments! They make my day ^~^  
> And thank you to anyone who's already left kudos or comments, you're the reason I continued this sleep-deprived fic ahah


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after The Chapter (I think we all know what I'm talking about here)

I think I said somewhere for Death to kiss you softly and take you away with gentle arms when you die.

I take it all back.

Death doesn’t deserve you. 

(Nobody does.)

(Least of all me.)

He doesn’t deserve to gather your tired soul in his arms, lean forward with fire in his eyes, peer through all your growling and stuttering to see the beautiful mess underneath the constellations of freckles.

(Am I talking about Death or myself?)

It doesn’t matter. None of us deserve you, not Death with his dark hood and cold fingers, not the Mage with his schemes and mind games, not anyone.

(Not me.)

But here I am, watching you sleep again, and it’s somehow so different.

You’re going to laugh at me while you read this, Snow. (Simon.) You’re going to laugh, I can already imagine it.

(I don’t think I can believe you’ll ever die, but if you’re reading this, I better be by your side, watching you sleep, and I don’t even mind if you call me Edward.)

(Actually, I do. But just a little.)

You’re going to laugh because you just watched me beckon Death forward with the flames, watched my duct-taped mind fall apart, and you saved me again. You saved me and killed me and it was everything I dreamed of. And all I can do to thank you is stare at you in your sleep.

I hope you don’t wake up.

Wait, that came out wrong. Simon, no, not that way.

I’ve reached out for Death because he’s more than I could ever hope for, but he doesn’t deserve you.

Not you, with your sunshine hair and moles, breathing from your mouth, taking Life into your lungs and pushing it back out.

You’ll always take that next breath.

(Sometimes, I doubt that. I’ve watched you toss and turn, breath held, before screams claw their way from your throat and you gasp in another breath. You are too good for Life to ever forsake, and Life will always return to your lungs, vitality to your bloodstream.)

(Because you’re alive, Snow, and that’s more than I can ever hope to be.)

But Death doesn’t deserve you. Death doesn’t deserve to come near you with his cold lips and cold hands and cold heart.

Because you are fire, and I can’t bear to watch him put you out.

And if you’re reading this, Snow, Simon, that means you’re dying.

(I tried not to think about it, but I have to.)

So I guess...I guess I have to come clean.

This is the last letter I’ll write to you. I only want to say goodbye once. 

I’m going to write this as quickly as I can while you still sleep because that makes it less real. 

Simon Snow, I…

Can’t say it. (Or won’t.) Those sugar sweet words don’t belong in my mouth. I can’t tell you how much I-

I-

This isn’t working. 

I’ve spat out too many insults and hate-filled sentences, sneering phrases. The words I want to say are filled with honey, sticking in the back of my throat. I can’t cough them up. 

Then I guess all I can say is…

Fight, you bloody git! Don’t be such a weakling. Chosen one, are you? The chosen one can’t even fight off Death. Pathetic.

(Just try a little harder, hold on a little longer.)

You’ve already let my poisoned lips touch you. Are you going to let Death’s do the same? Traitor. Liar. Backstabbing little boy who isn’t worthy of his magic.

(Let anger ignite the spark of life in you. Please, please.)

You weren’t meant to be the Chosen One.

(...that went a little far, didn’t it. I’m sorry, Snow. I’m sorry for trying to buy time for my future self, wherever he is. He’s coming, I hope. Just wait.)

You weren’t meant to be the Chosen One and I wasn’t meant to be a vampire, but we are what the world has made of us and we’ll make the best of it.

So hold on, Simon, because I can’t say goodbye. Not here, not now, not while you’re sleeping in my room on my pillows. Because I don’t want to live in a world where this can’t be a reality.

Where you won’t wage war with your blankets in the night, twisting and turning and biting back screams.

Where you won’t wake up with your sleep-filled eyes and mutter a hello to me.

I can’t live with the idea that you aren’t alive.

And I’ll never stop being amazed that you can live with the idea that I’m not living. 

I’ll never stop being amazed that you’ve accepted me, saved me from my own flames, and are now sleeping in my room.

So Simon, I’m begging you, if you’re reading this in some infirmary or forest or...or wherever, please, just hold on.

I’m coming, because I can’t say goodbye like this. 

I don’t care how or why, my future self will pay you back for everything. Just fight off Death a little longer.

(Be strong, Snow. Be strong like you always were, like you always are, and let me live secure in the belief that your heart will carry on.)

Let me save you this one time, Snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Yup, I've decided to extend this little fic to 6 parts, let's see where it goes. Again, kudos and comments mean so much to me!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon's perspective, if you couldn't tell!

Simon:

I swear, I was just trying to find my mint aero bars.

Baz gets them every time. I didn’t notice for a while, but there’s always a few missing. Even here in his house, in his room, with the tiny stash I brought myself, he’s already gotten to them somehow.

They’re all gone. (Or maybe I misplaced them somehow, forgotten where I put them, let them fade from memory. But I don’t think so.)

Even we’re doing this trusting thing, this truce and all that, I thought that I’d keep those mint aeros as something that’s mine. Something that I have complete control over. And then I went to my stash and realized they were gone.

(So that’s why he smelled like mint.)

And a moment later, I realized I wasn’t mad when I really should be.

I’m not sure what I’m doing.

(I asked him to be my boyfriend. And I asked to see his fangs. And I shared dinner with him, alone in his room, and he’s asleep now.)

He was up a few minutes ago, writing something down, and he stuck that piece of paper in this drawer of his table. 

I don’t know why I did it.

I don’t know why I waited until he fell asleep, matching his breaths with my own, letting paranoia fall from his mind.

I can’t believe he sleeps so peacefully without the Anathema to protect him. (I don’t know why I do either.)

He’s still sleeping now, breaths even, chest rising and falling, heart beating.

(He’s alive, even if he doesn’t believe it.) 

He’s sleeping and I’m awake, and my hands are holding different pieces of his shattered heart. 

Crowley, I really shouldn’t have looked for those aero bars. 

I’d opened the drawer, wondering if I’d left them there and forgotten, or maybe he’d stashed them there to eat later, and I saw papers with my name on it.

An entire thick stack, tied together, his handwriting perfectly beautiful.

I couldn’t help myself.

My hands just reached out, untied them, and I picked out a few to read because I wanted to understand what he was thinking.

I wanted to know what he was writing.

(What he was plotting.)

Maybe I wanted justification for all those years of hate. 

I just opened the letters and realized all too quickly that these weren’t meant for my eyes.

Well, maybe they were, but not really. Not like this, in the dark of night, where we’re both perfectly healthy.

Because the only way he could think of giving away his feelings was if I was dying, and that broke his heart.

(It broke mine too.)

And now I’m standing here, holden those pieces of his broken heart and wondering how he’s still alive.

So much of him is missing.

(I didn’t know. I couldn’t imagine.) 

He’s not really the person I thought he was.

Cold. Confident. Ready to sneer through anything, insults flying to his lips faster than smiles ever could.

All slicked back hair and sharp angles.

(Vampire.)

But he’s not wrong. Not evil. Just a boy, just my roommate. 

Just someone who steals my aero bars and eats crisps when he thinks I’m not looking.

And under that, he’s a slashed-apart heart, bleeding out, identity rejected by his own mind. 

His words only cut himself. 

Every letter I’ve read is a collection of glass shards, and my heart is cut apart.

And even though I’m the Chosen One, the golden boy, the one with all the power and nowhere for it to go, I’m the one who doesn’t deserve him.

I don’t deserve him at all.

Because he’s devastatingly handsome, unbelievably good, and so incredibly broken that he shouldn’t have been able to let anyone else in.

And then he did.

And now he’s sleeping there, trusting me not to kill him.

I don’t deserve him and his pretty words, pain-laced descriptions. His soft-spoken poetry has slashed through me.

I don’t deserve those pretty words. I don’t deserve to be the cause of that pain.

I didn’t know anything going on under the water, and the tip of the iceberg was so much less than what I needed to know. 

I don’t deserve these letters now, and I won’t deserve them when I’m dying, and I don’t know what to do.

Because Baz is many things. 

(Tall.) (Dark.) (Handsome.)

But he’s also completely wrong. And I need to fix that.

So I root around in his table for a red pen and I correct his letters.

Just like the way the teachers do. Red marks over what’s wrong, replaced with the right answer, replaced with the truth.

“ That I was less, I was wrong, I was evil.” I cross everything out. Because he’s not, and he deserves more than that.

And I write the truth.

That he’s smart, beautiful, a better person than I could be.

(I’m not good with words. I’m clumsy, I trip over them, but at least I try. Because even if I can’t write his poetic prose, I can write the truth, and the truth is worth more than gold.)

And I keep going, fix the rest, scribbling notes in the margins.

That Agatha never made me feel the way he does.

That even if I wasn’t next to him right then, I’d always be there in my mind. Because I thought of him all the time, even then, before the truce and the Humdrum and everything.

And I tell him that I’m glad he thought of me in that coffin, because Death doesn’t deserve him.

I look up, setting down the pen a moment, and watch him breath in and out, and I’m reminded how incredibly alive he is. Even if he says he’s not.

And I realize I’d fight off Death for him anytime.

(He doesn’t even have to beg. I’d hold on longer to see his face.) 

I pick up the pen, setting the nib against the last letter, next to a sentence, and I frown.

This was the part I’d read earlier, thought was strange, because Baz has all the poetic words in the world but couldn’t spit out those.

But I know I can.

I just need to find them in me, find those honey-thick words and set them onto paper, and maybe, for once in my life, I would be more eloquent than Baz.

(Because love is eloquent and elegant by nature, and not even I can screw that up.)

But I don’t even know if I’m gay. 

(Does it matter?)

I look up at him one more time, his body twisting in his sleep, face contorting with night terrors, and my hands write it for me.

“I think I love you.”

And it’s not concrete, not solid yet, but I’m getting there. 

We’re both haunted, both broken, and two broken pieces don’t quite make a whole, but that’s okay. We’re okay. I think.

Not quite right now, at this moment, with me holding the fragments of his heart, and him half-screaming in his sleep, but we’re getting better.

I tie the letters back together, tuck them back into the drawer next to an aero bar wrapper, and close it.

He’ll find it sometime or another, and I’ll deal with the consequences later. (There’s some things I just don’t have time to think about.)

And I cross the room, try to calm his thrashing. (Sometimes reality is worse than nightmares, but I’m here now. I’ll fight it off for him.)

His eyes open, half-lidded, filled with sleep, and I know he won’t remember this in the morning but I do it anyway.

Smoothing back his hair at the widow’s peak, I press a quick kiss to his forehead. My hands are warm against his cold cheeks.

He smiles slightly, eyes closing again.

“It’s going to be alright,” I whisper, words coming easily for once. “We just have to carry on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more part after this! It's been a lovely ride so far, and I never expected so many people to read this! Thank you so much for reading this completely sleep-deprived fic :D


	6. End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One last letter!
> 
> If you can't tell, in the second part, the stuff in parenthesis is Simon's annotations. Happy reading, and sorry for the delay!

Dear Death,

It’s Baz. 

And I hate to say this, but I, Tyrannus Basilton Grimm Pitch, think I owe you an apology.

I always said you were too good to take me, kill me, relieve this body of this soul and rid the world of a monster. 

I resented you for that. I resented you for being too aloof to reach down and scrub out the rot, put out the molding heart.

But I guess I have to thank you, Death. Because you didn’t carry me away on your arms, and you left Simon here with me. 

I’m pretty sure you almost took his soul.

You should’ve seen his face after the Mage. Actually, I’m pretty sure you did.

I’m nearly certain you peered into his eyes for the next few months, checking in to see if he was ready for you to take him away.

It broke the pieces of my heart.

Because his eyes were empty, life nearly snuffed out, and all it would take was a puff of air to extinguish the flame.

I used to say he would burn me. Now, I wished he still did.

That flame faltered and flickered and nearly died so many times that I lost count.

I know how it feels. 

I know the creeping sensation of guilt growing over your once-pure heart, covering it with shame, dimming the flame of your soul until it almost sputters out. I know how it feels to reach for explanations of why someone died and coming up with only...yourself.

Because I know how it feels to think you’re the root of the mold, the cause of the suffering, and your flame deserves to die.

I know.

Because I felt it before in a flame-ridden, vampire infested room when I was five and I saw your face for the first time, Death.

When Simon stood up that day, half-dead like the rest of us, I saw myself in his eyes.

We match, did you know that?

Both broken.

And someone once told me that two broken parts don’t make a whole.

They make a tragedy.

But I’m not going to believe that. Because his brash, bright-eyed antics relit the flame of my flickering soul when we were cast together in that dorm room so many years ago, and I’ll be there every step of the way now.

I’m here for him.

I’ll be here until my molded heart stops beating in the cavity of my chest because my love will be the tinder for the flame of his life, and I will burn for him to turn back into a roaring flame.

I’m used to it.

He’s still everything he used to be. Inflammably handsome, even with the tail. 

Just mellower, softer. Stuck more in his head.

I think he’ll recover. I mean, I did.

So I’m sorry, Death, but I’ll need one more favor.

I know I’m a monster, the bane of humanity, and I’m sure I should be dead.

I might be dead. I’m not sure. 

But Simon Snow is here, back in my room, sleeping on the sofa with his soul in his body, and I’d really like it to stay that way.

Christmas is around the corner, so I’d like a miracle, if you didn’t mind.

Because last Christmas, I gave you my heart.

You didn’t take it.

So this year, to save me from tears, I’ve given it to someone special, and they’ll make better use of it than you ever did.

Please delay the collection of my soul as long as possible, and stay away from Simon.

He’s not going out or burning up.

He’s just recovering for now.

And I love him. 

Happy Christmas, Death.

-Baz

PS. If you can’t postpone my death that long, at least give me until I can decipher all the rest of Simon’s chicken scratch that he left on those other letters. I love him, but I can’t read it at all. I’m sure it’ll take me at least another ninety years to figure it out.

 

++++++

Three days later, the letter was taken from the cabinet. Twenty minutes after that, it was returned.  
With a few changes, of course.

++++++

 

Dear Death,

It’s Baz. (And Simon. Baz, I know you’re reading this. I mean, I hope you are; I don’t want to have annotated this entire letter for you to forget it in the bottom of this bloody drawer forever.)

And I hate to say this, but I, Tyrannus Basilton Grimm Pitch, think I owe you an apology.

I always said you were too good to take me, kill me, relieve this body of this soul and rid the world of a monster. 

(Baz, there are so many things wrong with this statement, I’m talking to you about this tomorrow.)

I resented you for that. I resented you for being too aloof to reach down and scrub out the rot, put out the molding heart.

(I’m pretty sure I already addressed this in my other annotations Baz! Quit it with the rot, that’s not how hearts work, especially when they’re made of gold.)

But I guess I have to thank you, Death. Because you didn’t carry me away on your arms, and you left Simon here with me. 

(That’s...surprisingly sweet...I’m starting to get the feeling that I shouldn’t be reading this, but you’ll already know I’ve started. There’s red pen everywhere. Might as well finish.)

I’m pretty sure you almost took his soul.

You should’ve seen his face after the Mage. Actually, I’m pretty sure you did. 

I’m nearly certain you peered into his eyes for the next five months, checking in to see if he was ready for you to take him away.  
It broke the pieces of my heart. 

(Baz...I-)

Because his eyes were empty, life nearly snuffed out, and all it would take was a puff of air to extinguish the flame. 

(These words are so pretty, but...Baz...you noticed?)

I used to say he would burn me. Now, I wished he still did.

(I never meant to hurt you, really Baz, I mean it.)

That flame faltered and flickered and nearly died so many times that I lost count. 

(...you were counting?)

I know how it feels. 

I know the creeping sensation of guilt growing over your once-pure heart, covering it with shame, dimming the flame of your soul until it almost sputters out. I know how it feels to reach for explanations of why someone died and coming up with only yourself. 

(Baz, no, your mother was not your fault, she didn’t even know you were Turned, it wasn’t your fault and I don’t have the words to say this but it wasn’t, really. Please believe me.)

Because I know how it feels to think you’re the root of the mold, the cause of the suffering, and your flame deserves to die.

(I killed the Mage. You didn’t kill your mother. You have no reason to feel like that, Baz. But I do.)

I know.

Because I felt it before in a flame-ridden, vampire infested room when I was five and I saw your face for the first time. 

(Death’s rather pretty, isn’t he?)

When Simon stood up that day, half-dead like the rest of us, I saw myself in his eyes.

We match, did you know that?

Both broken. 

(...Thanks.)

And someone once told me that two broken parts don’t make a whole.

They make a tragedy. 

(They were wrong. We aren’t a fairy tale, but at least we make a bloody good story.)

But I’m not going to believe that. Because his brash, bright-eyed antics relit the flame of my flickering soul when we were cast together in that dorm room so many years ago, and I’ll be there every step of the way now. 

(I really don’t understand this. I didn’t do much, but...thanks, I guess?)

I’m here for him.

(You always have been and always were, even if I didn’t see it, even if you didn’t act like it. Thank you, Baz.)

I’ll be here until my molded heart stops beating in the cavity of my chest because my love will be the tinder for the flame of his life, and I will burn for him to turn back into a roaring flame. (Baz…)

I’m used to it.

He’s still everything he used to be. Inflammably handsome, even with the tail. 

(I know, I’m sorry, alright? Yes, it’s not anatomically correct and looks like a cartoon, but I was a bit pressed for time when I made it, thank you very much.)

Just mellower, softer. Stuck more in his head.

I think he’ll recover. I mean, I did. 

(Of course I will. I’ll be fine.)

So I’m sorry, Death, but I’ll need one more favor.

I know I’m a monster, the bane of humanity, and I’m sure I should be dead. 

(Stop saying this, you’re not. You’re the best thing to ever happen to me, and I was the bloody Chosen One.)

I might be dead. I’m not sure. 

(You’re not dead. I’m sure.)

But Simon Snow is here, back in my room, sleeping on the sofa with his soul in his body, and I’d really like it to stay that way. 

(...You still stare at me while I sleep?)

Christmas is around the corner, so I’d like a miracle, if you don’t mind.

Because last Christmas, I gave you my heart. 

(The very next day, you gave it away. Did I guess that right?)

You didn’t take it. 

(Nope. But hey, I’m sure Death would love to have your soul. He’s just...busy.)

So this year, to save me from tears, I’ve given it to someone special, and he’ll make better use of it than you ever did.

(I really will.)

Please delay the collection of my soul as long as possible, and stay away from Simon. 

(Aw, jealous?)

He’s not going out or burning up.

He’s just recovering for now.

And I love him. 

(I still can’t believe you can finally say this now.)

Happy Christmas, Death. 

(Happy Christmas!)

-Baz (and Simon!)

PS. If you can’t postpone my death that long, at least give me until I can decipher all the rest of Simon’s chicken scratch that he left on those other letters. I love him, but I can’t read it at all. I’m sure it’ll take me at least another ninety years to figure it out. 

(You still haven’t read it?...Baz...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much everybody for making it all the way to the end! I'm sorry for the delay, hope this chapter made up for it. It's been a wonderful ride and I've loved every minute of if, though much of it took place at insane hours of the night. I know it was a short fic but I hope you still enjoyed!
> 
> I'll try to write a bit more on this account, I'm not too active, but I'll really try if I have the time.
> 
> Thank you again for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Thanks for reading, and please leave kudos/drop me a comment if you liked it!


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